A La Carte (3 page)

2

“Hi, honey, how was your day? Grab an apron, will you?”

“It was all right,” I tell her, editing the news of an impending physics test from my response. “What do you need me to do?”

“Salad prep.” My mother nods to the stainless steel counter and sink in the front of the room where stacks of boxes of vegetables wait. “We're short a line cook, so we promoted Octavio for the afternoon.”

“Okay.” Salad prep is pretty mind-numbing—wash vegetables, slice vegetables. I pick up a knife and glance down the counter. Ming and Gene are cleaning mushrooms and Roy, another kitchen assistant, is already working, quickly peeling and slicing a white root. The sharp smell of ginger hits me.

“That smells good,” I say, and Roy nods, glancing up.

“Clears my head,” he says, and smiles.

I watch Roy's technique before starting in. The Japanese turnips slice into thin pale oblongs, releasing a pungent odor.

Mom slides a box of pale-skinned, round jicama roots toward me. “I need these peeled,” she says, moving around me carefully. “Those turnips look good, but watch the thickness, huh?”

“Mom,” I sigh. “I am not going to cut myself.”

“I know, but you don't need to go that thin.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay.”

Roy finishes with the ginger and reaches for one of the jicamas. I pick up the pace. His knife is quick as he chops the heavy white root, then matchsticks it for artistic presentation.

“Hey, Roy, can you cut that in slow motion?” I beg. “I want to see how you do it.”

Roy glances over at me and grins, his gold tooth flashing in his smile. “Okay. Slice it in half”—the knife
thunk
s as the blade bites into the crisp flesh—“and put the cut side down.”

“Got it.”

“In half again” (
thunk
) “and start making slices, maybe a quarter inch thick. A jicama this size, you get eight slices; some are smaller, some are bigger. Cut each slice into four sticks. When you julienne, you don't want any longer than two inches, okay?”

“Got it,” I say, concentrating. My jicama gives me ten slices, and my matchsticks are skinnier than Roy's, but by the time I meticulously finish one, he's done three. I growl a little, glancing at his pile.

“You have the skills,” he says. “Now you need the speed.”

My mother glares at him. “Don't encourage her,” she warns. “Don't worry about speed, Laine. It took me years to learn my knife work.”

“But I'm not you,” I mutter under my breath.

Roy laughs.

The noise this afternoon isn't as urgent yet as it is during dinner service. So far it's laughter, conversation, the rhythmic
thunk, thunk, thunk
of heavy knives slicing through vegetables and bone to make stock for the gravies and sauces, and the clink of glasses coming out of the sanitizer. The back door opens.

“Afternoon, everybody. How's my Laine?”

“Hey, Miss Maeva.” People in the kitchen greet the stout older woman.

Maeva shrugs out of her jacket and pushes her red-tinted hair into a net before putting on her apron. The restaurant sends out all of the linens to a dry cleaner, but Maeva takes over the ironing, setting up with a padded board on the back counter.

“How's school?” Maeva calls, like she always does. The iron hisses, and the smell of hot cotton adds a layer of scent to the warm room.

“Okay,” I say, sliding a pile of jicama peelings into a plastic bin.

“What's ‘okay'?” Maeva scolds. “You kids! Can't you say something when somebody talks to you?” Maeva picks up a flattened napkin and folds it into the origami swan shape that Pia likes.

“It was…school,” I laugh. “I don't know what to say. It wasn't here, that's all.”

It's hard to know what to say. When I'm in the kitchen, everything fades: my bruised ego at Mrs. Stowers's surprise trigonometry quiz, my irritation at getting rained on without my umbrella, my cruddy physics lab, everything. The window in the kitchen is fogged with steam, and I'm damp and sticky, but I'm perfectly at home.

“It was a pretty good day,” I admit finally. “Nobody died.”

Laughter overwhelms Maeva's disgusted sigh. Even Ming, our quietest kitchen assistant, who's usually plugged in to her music, looks up and laughs.

Conversation continues around me, but I am struck with inspiration. As soon as the bulk of the salad prep is finished, I escape to a quiet corner with a piece of fresh ginger root and grate it. Last month's
Gourmet
had a recipe for pear gingerbread, and Mom lets me experiment with desserts when there's time.

Our pastry chef at La Salle Rouge is this big, mellow man named Stefan Schlatt. He looks like a blue-eyed, graying bear, but he's always been nice to me. He has his bakers leave me my little space in the pastry station, stocked with flour and sugar and everything I might need. Mom makes a big deal out of making me keep the pastry station clean and thank the pastry staff every single time I'm in there, because, as she always says, the kitchen is not a playground. I know it's a privilege to experiment in here, and so does Mom, who sometimes does it herself.

I'm halfway through sifting my dry ingredients when Mom comes over and puts an arm around me.

“Looks good, Laineybelle. You using the Barbados molasses?”

“Yep. And I'm thinking of adding crystallized ginger too. And some black pepper. What do you think?”

Mom smiles. “I think that your gingerbread is not going to be for the faint of heart.”

“Real gingerbread usually isn't.”

“I see!” My mother arches her eyebrow and laughs.

“Did the mail come yet?” I ask quickly before she wanders away again. “Did I get anything from that bake-ware contest?”

“I haven't been home this afternoon,” Mom says. “Unless you told them you lived here, I don't know.”

“I do live here,” I joke. “My landlord just needs to put in a shower.”

I check on my gingerbread and frown, looking around the pastry station for help. I spot Stefan and wait until he sees me.

“What is it today?” he asks, peering into my oven.

“Gingerbread. Is the top dry enough?” One of the things I always do to myself is second-guess when things are done. Even if I have a timer go off, do the toothpick test, and have Mom say it looks done, I'm never sure. You wouldn't believe how many things I eat that are just barely burnt, but sometimes that improves the flavor. Only sometimes, though.

Stefan pulls the pan out of the oven and frowns at it, gently pressing his fingertips into the top of the dark cake. “Did you test the temperature?”

“No…” I press my fingers against the cake. It springs back.

“Test it. Temperature inside should be between 190 and 195 degrees.”

Stefan points me toward the probe thermometer that is magnetically attached to the front of the oven. I slide the metal into the center, being careful not to touch the pan. It is 193 degrees. I guess it's done enough.

The smell of gingerbread is the smell of a thousand afternoons with MaDea, the smell of wet sidewalks and lemon tea and all the things I love best about the end of the year. It's always so amazing to me that I can re-create a time just through smell. I lean my face into the pan and breathe in deep. Yum.

“You know, most people would use a knife, but it might be fun to watch if you're going to eat that face-first.”

I jerk back from the pan and turn around.

“S-Sim!” The word sputters from my surprised mouth.

“The one and only,” Sim says, grinning. He's leaning against the counter behind me, wearing a black sweater over a white tee and jeans. His hair is messy, like he's been wearing a hat or out in the wind. I notice he has keys in his hand. Where has he come from? Where is he going?

Why do I care?

I shut my mouth and hastily pull off my oven mitts, trying to pretend a calm I don't feel. “Do you need something?” I ask in a halfway normal voice.

“Do I need to have a reason to drop by?” Sim counters. He's smiling at me like he knows something I don't.

I make my voice cool, remembering his blank-faced
Did you need something?
“Yes, Sim, actually, you do have to have a reason to drop by. This is a restaurant, and we're not open for dinner yet, so what do you want?”

“Well, look who's here!”

Oh no.
Mom rushes over, her eyes bright.

“Hello, Simeon! What are you up to?”

Mom beams at both of us, approval in every line of her body.

“Hi, Mrs. Seifert.” Simeon smiles as if my mother is his favorite person in the world. “I just came by to see if Laine has notes for our physics test I can borrow.”

“Oh, right,” I mutter. Simeon, even without bothering to come to class, is miles better at physics than I am, and he knows it. He could pass a test in his sleep, practically.

“No, really, Laine.” Sim turns to me. “Wilcox is making me turn in notes 'cause I've been…uh, out sick and missed so many classes. So, if I could copy your notes…”

“I need them for the test,” I say quickly.

“Lainey, why don't you guys go down to the office? He can copy them on the machine, and then you'll both have them when you need them.”

I look at my mother and sigh. Could she be more helpful?

“Okay,” I say grudgingly. “But I've got to de-pan my gingerbread first.”

“Elaine.”
My mother frowns in exasperation. “I'll bring you a piece. Go help Sim now. Shoo.” Mom waves her hands as if I'm a balky three-year-old who won't go outside to play.

My mom wishes I had friends; can you tell? Anytime I have a project with someone, Mom wants to make sure to send them home with cookies. Every time I go to my physics tutorial before a test, my mother says, “You could invite people to study over here. I'd make popcorn balls,” as if this is all everyone wants out of life. I'm pretty sure she'd suggest a taffy pull if she thought I'd go for it.

(Actually, we've made taffy before. Don't laugh; it was really good.)

Sighing, I untie my apron and yank it over my head. I feel naked without it, and I feel nervous that Sim's here, trailing quietly behind me down the stairs. I take the stairs quickly, practically running.

“Hey.” He grabs my arm, and I stop moving, my hand on the knob. “Hey.”

“What?” I ask. I take a deep breath and turn back toward the door. He's standing too close to me.

“You just seem…mad. What's up, Lainey?”

What's up,
he says. Please. Am I the only one who remembers that he hasn't acted like I exist since last summer?

“Hey.” Sim's fingers loosen their hold on my arm and slide across my hand. He tugs on my thumb. “Can we just talk for a minute?” he asks plaintively. “I didn't just come to get your notes, you know. I thought we could, I don't know, talk a minute or something.”

I pull my hand away from his, surprised and fumble-fingered as I open the door.
Calm. Calm. Calm.

“What do you want, Sim? Really? You could've gotten these notes from at least fifty other people in our class.”

Sim smiles a little, and his yellowy amber eyes crinkle behind their long lashes. “I know other people had the notes,” he says, “but no one else had the
gingerbread.
”

Just give him the notes, Lainey.

“You know that was a joke, right?” Sim ducks his head to look into my face. “Laine, I know I haven't been around lately, but I appreciate you coming through for me. I owe you one, okay?”

“Sure, Sim. Whatever.” The scanner is on the second page. Almost done.

“Laine.” Simeon leans across the desk and taps my arm. “Look. How about if—”

“I've got gingerbread,” Mom calls, pushing open the office door, carrying dessert plates. Simeon turns toward her, and I breathe out a quick sigh, half relieved, half something else. Disappointed?

No. It's not disappointment. I have way better things to do than talk to Simeon Keller. Way better things.